Black Feathers
by Epic Writing Fail
Summary: "Oh, Baroq, what I would give, to still be sitting in the porch of my mansion with you, sipping champagne as we watch the sun set," the witch smiles, swirling the wine in her cup, "Wouldn't that life truly be exquisite?" BaroqxEleanor


**Black Feathers****  
>Written by <strong>_**Epic Writing Fail**_

(_**A/N**_) _My first MapleStory oneshot! __Just wrote this little something, because I needed a break from TToC – I can only work on one story for so long, you know…_

_On another rather charming note…_

_Well, I've never written a romance before – a proper one, anyway. I'm not very proficient in action scenes, either._

…

_Just warning you._

_Nevertheless, enjoy._

* * *

><p>"Oh, Baroq, what I would give…" she intones dreamily, swirling the crimson concoction in her half-empty glass, "to still be sitting on the porch of my mansion, sipping champagne, whilst I watch the sun set into the horizon."<p>

The Black Witch turns to him, her eyes – violet eyes – sparkling with melancholy.

"That life would truly be exquisite, wouldn't it?"

Baroq grunts in response,

"But you're sitting by a window, watching the sun set over the horizon," he frowns, leaning his chin against his hand, "while you're sipping merlot."

He meets her warmed gaze – a similar glint of dejectedness in his eye.

"Isn't that close enough?"

A smile, forlorn, tugs at the edge of her lip,

"I wish we were still children," she brings the cup to her lips.

"I'm sorry?"

Taking another tentative sip, Eleanor, once again, directs her gaze to the window, the orangey-pinks in the slowly darkening sky washing over her features,

"I wish we were still so young, and so naïve," she elaborates, lapping the very last drop of her 18th century wine, "like the children we once were – the children we can no longer be."

To this, the older man can't utter even a single word, as she rises from the flimsy chair,

"Take my hand, Baroq,"

"I…"

He looks up at her in amazement – or bemusement, rather, an eyebrow raised.

"Let us dance."

Obliging, Baroq, too, finds himself rising from his seat, looming over the smaller woman.

"Dance?"

"Like the old days," she smiles, "when we still had the flash of youth dancing under our eyelids; we shall dance."

Like the domineering girl she once was, and the authoritarian woman Eleanor eventually grew to become, she pulls him, entranced, into the centre of the recreational room.

"What song are we dancing to?" he inquires.

"The waltz," she burs, followed by an almost-innocent giggle, "of nostalgia."

"The _what _–?"

Fluidly, almost naturally, without warning, he finds himself stepping – or gliding, rather – across the faux marble flooring; her delicate hand placed comfortably in his.

Laughter, like wind chimes, ring through the headquarters.

"Oh, Baroq, what I would give…"

Shutting her eyes, a smile still hangs on her painted purple lips – this time, not injected with sadness, but endless pleasure, and mirth.

Eleanor finds her delicate hand resting on his chest,

"… To be reliving those days, sitting on a porch, with a glass of champagne in my hand, as I watch the sun set."

She twirls – magenta robes glide seamlessly across a marble floor, as the step, step of her heels resound through the room…

Leaning in to whisper in his ear, she says softly,

"… _With you_."

And, at that moment, he takes her chin in between his fingers, and captures her lips in a sweet, sorrowful kiss.

It was a tormented kiss – of a love that can never be.

* * *

><p>The slash of a blade against skin, and the searing light carved into the back of his eyelids, as he flinches unwittingly.<p>

As the crimson red blood runs down his forehead, trailing down his cheek like a lone tear, he cares not to notice, as the adrenaline, fuelling his magic, and pumping through his veins, blunted the pain ever so slightly.

Was this it?

Was this _really_ what he has been reduced to; being eliminated on a mission as simple as this?

Sure, though the Black Wings went so far – and so _low_ – as to selling their signature hats to passers-by (who could, incidentally, access their hideout easily, no matter who they were) due to lack of funds, and their own security was hardly anything to write home about – the protection provided by Ereve was sub-par, at best.

… 'The Divine Bird'?

Wasn't it supposed to serve its purpose of protecting the Maple World from death and destruction?

… Then where _was_ it when the Black Mage crushed and reformed Victoria Island, forcing all the monsters and peasants alike to do his bidding; killing thousands upon thousands – hundreds of thousands, perhaps – for the sake of reforming the Maple World?

Was it protecting little empress, while she slept and watched in horror as the world – _their_ world – crumbled before their eyes?

"Is that all you've got?"

Baroq calls out to the knight ruthlessly, as he releases another wave of translucent magic –the dawn warrior finds himself knocked back to the edge of Timu's forest.

'_This boy is determined,_' he narrows his eyes, '_why has he not given up yet?_'

Why were people so opposed to justice, the endless promises made to countless men, women and children of Edelstein, and to people spread all around the world?

The Black Mage offered them the bare necessities that they otherwise would not have gotten; shelter, food, water; _survival_…

To so many men, women and children, it was so much more; a home, luxuries, some hope of respite; _a family_.

The Black Mage offered them _life_.

And what did Cygnus offer?

What did Goddess give to these same hopeless people?

She, and all other hypocrites that roam the Maple World, in comparison to Lord Noirahtlen_*****_… They both sought out endless power – but the similarities end there.

Cygnus, and all other hypocrites that roam this world, offered _nothing_.

Only empty promises and empty, meaningless ideals that were blown out of proportion – ideals for a Maple world where there would be no war, no poverty, and light would forever drown the world in a state of illusionary bliss.

What they offered was an impossibility; something that defied all nature, and all logic.

What was light if there was no darkness?

The Black Wings sought out to destroy this nonsense, so that their lord may reign supreme again, and then they would all be a family; the whole world would be reunited as one.

The Black Mage?

What the Black Mage promised was _truth_, as opposed to hypocrisy; _answers_, as opposed to sweetened, venomous _lies_.

"Gh…" he grunts in response, wiping away the line of blood that dribbled down his chin, nearly losing grip of his grand Doombringer, as he tries to pick himself up and off the ground.

Why did they wish to destroy this?

_Why did they never give up_?

Narrowing his own eyes, eyes that were the colour of blood, he grimaces, as prickling pain takes over his body…

"What do you even _fight_ for, old man?"

'_Why do they not understand…_'

Even _more_ battered and bruised than his opponent, the burly man finds his movements stilted – forced, as he raises his arms slowly,

"What do _you_ fight for?" Baroq retorts dramatically.

Arcane symbols form all around him, eyes glowering a bright, _bright_ shade of blue, he clenches his fist…

'… _I fight for the empress,_' he shuts his eyes, jaw tightening in giving a silent answer, '_and for Ereve._'

"What do you intend to do with the secret treasure?" the knight inquires.

Releasing another wave of magic, considerably weaker than the last, Baroq chokes out,

"I will never tell you!"

He was never told what the purpose of his mission was; only to steal this valuable crystal, giving off an aura of endless power, encased in a bright purple box.

But the orders came from the Lord himself; they must be used to righteous purposes, right?

Crimson droplets are coughed up, dripping into baby grass, like rain, along with the forced words he uttered.

Effortlessly, seamlessly, the knight, with impossible agility, zips through the air, with another blinding flash of light accompanying him, as he misses the glower of magic by a mere inch…

'_For the Maple World!_' a flash of determination flickers across his oddly-coloured eyes, nearly hidden behind locks of gold – bright as the sun itself.

… Alastair was the righteous one of the two of them, of course.

He was the very embodiment of light, serving under the ruler of the world, and the keeper of peace – known as Cygnus, the holy empress of Ereve.

Why did these people even serve what was the equivalent of the devil; an estranged man – who could hardly even be called such – who killed thousands upon thousands of men, women and children, in his lust for power?

He was revered, surely, for the fact that only a fraction of his power could shake continents; but that was all.

Collapsing, Baroq clasps onto his throat with his right hand, and ripping out the grasses in desperation with his left, trying to haul himself up again.

What did that Black Mage offer that seemed so enticing to these mad, _mad_ people?

Naught even a tiny share of his power, naught even a drop of knowledge; he only offered destruction.

"I've beaten you within an inch of your life," the warrior, Alastair, scoffs, slinging his too-big sword over his shoulder, "and you still haven't given me any of the information I need: what have you stolen that is so precious, that made Ereve go into a crisis never experienced even _once_ before?"

'_I don't know,_' Baroq lowers his gaze.

He stands victorious, for the righteous people always won – because the Black Mage only cursed those who followed him with death.

It was what was taught in those text books of his, written by the empress herself; they _must_ be right! Empress' hand was blessed by Goddess in all her glory!

As though in defeat, or in sadness, a masochistic grin crawls up his face, swollen eyes hidden by that mysterious teal cloak of his.

The Black Mages subordinates, he also learned, were not but a bunch of madmen. Delusional men, women and children, who deserved not to walk upon the face of the Maple World, because they were blinded with the illusion that serving the greater forces of evil would grant them endless power…

"Then I will take your sinful corruption," he hollers, lifting up his doom bringer above his head, light still swirling around him as he does so, "_and I will crush it!_"

The last thing that beholds Baroq's eyes, as he draws his last breath, was the beauty – and the sheer power – of the light swirling around the blade, crashing down onto him…

* * *

><p>The sun peaks above the too-white clouds, cloaking the bright blue sky, as the birds chirp, mockingly, in the foliage surrounding.<p>

Shutting her eyes, she can hear, from a distance, the laughter of children, the joyful chatter of a couple of fellow co-workers, as they walked off, without a word, after they had offered their obligatory tributes – pure white lilies, irises, cards with but hollow words written in.

'_We all miss you_' – even though Orca never uttered even so much as a 'good morning' to him in the first place, whenever they passed by each other in the corridor; '_Your invaluable service to the Black Wings will always be valued_' – says the man who repeatedly reprimanded him for being useless…

They never meant it.

It all meant nothing; they could still laugh and smile with one another on such a sad day.

Hypocrites, they _all_ were.

How could they be so happy on such a day of lamentation?

'_Baroq_'

There was nothing more; nothing less.

Not even a proper burial; just a shoddily-carved name in a headstone, and a mound of dirt, covered with materialistic flowers that would soon rot away – nobody bothered to replace them, because nobody cared.

At the very least, _he_ got a _headstone_; what of the puppeteer?

Did the bastard pole-arm wielder simply throw his body into a ditch, or some other ungodly place where light would never reach; a place where no human, in a perfectly normal state, would ever venture?

He was a mere child! Did they not hear his pleas and cries, as he begged for mercy? How merciless they all were, slaughtering children in their lust for power, disregarding any form of human life that did not agree to their own terms…

And yet, they are called 'heroes'.

What are the Black Wings, then? Villains? Antagonists?

… _Evil, _even?

Did the malevolent villains _deserve_ no better than to have their carcasses thrown into a dank, dark place, where, after that, their souls will be purged into an endless black hole void of all life, and all happiness – where they would burn for an eternity?

… If that is so, then what would become of the Black Witch?

Would Eleanor even be remembered by that title anymore?

'… _Will I even be remembered at all?_' she laments.

All that have cared for her were gone – her mother, her father, Francis, and now, Baroq…

_Baroq…_

What does she have left to accompany her, now? The shattered shell of a ghost that she once called 'hope'?

"_You_ lied to me," the woman mutters to the clear blue sky, sudden anger washing over her, as the sky beams back at her with such happiness and merriment.

In the end, they will all be discarded; the only memory that they ever stood upon this Earth being a name etched in a stone – if any memory at all.

They were all just Black Feathers, plucked, one by one, from the grand wings of the Black Mage; promising grandiose dreams of splendour, only through doing wicked deeds – only through doing his bidding.

Hypocrisy; the one thing she thought she had managed to escape, is exactly what she embodied.

Grendel, Athena, Syl, Belle, Jin, Aran, Cygnus, Evan, Neinheart, Aidan, _Eleanor_ – an endless list of names that, if ever written down, would span across the universe as she knew it.

… Should she add the name 'Noirahtlen'_*****_ to that blacklist of hypocrisy, and people who never fulfil their promises?

"_You_ promised me endless happiness," she spits, "and, for a fleeting moment, I had it within the palm of my hand."

* * *

><p>"<strong><em>What the Black Mage promises,<em>**" the man; unknown, and long dead, like the rest of them are – or will be – intones, "**_he must give._**"

* * *

><p>"He <em>only<em> takes," she snarls, "he only took back what little happiness there was in my life; took it out of my grasp."

'_What the Black Mage promises, he never, ever gives,_' she shuts her eyes, '_because he can't ever give back to those who are loyal, and so _blind_ to his little antics…_'

The Black Mage wasn't Goddess; not even the ungodly equivalent. How could he promise so much, when he could only give so little – if anything at all?

He promised no happiness; he promised no pools of money that people dreamed of; he didn't promise all those innocent, hapless men – children, more like it – any hope of respite.

He promises life, tempts those who seek it by wavering it in front of their face, and, yet, when they finally take hold of what they want – when, finally, they grab hold of what they worked their lifetime for, their eyes roll to the back of their head, as a coldness sweeps over them.

The Black Mage only offered the curse of death to all those that followed him – their lord hadn't even a hint of remorse for all the lives he has taken so ruthlessly.

Managing to take the lives of a million so carelessly, and so ruthlessly, without even shedding a drop of blood – how did this all happen?

_Who_ got him so far?

All _he_ did was plucking away at his wings in masochistic pleasure, gnawing and biting at them whenever he got angry – and then discarding the feathers that fell behind.

… But what use were a couple of feathers, when he had _wings_ that would ascend him to the God-like glory that he had done nothing to deserve?

His feathers, is what got him so far – the ones lining his wings that have brought him up to victory and boundless power that, even so much as a fraction of it, could move continents.

"Au revoir."

Her eyes are dry, as she lays down the bouquet of pink carnations – a swarm of warmth in the endless sea of white.

Eleanor's eyes are dry, for she has already soaked her cheeks in tears of anguish – tears shed for what she has already lost.

But, now…

The Black Witch hadn't anything left.

Not even tears to shed.

* * *

><p><em>Oh, Baroq, what I would give,<br>to still be standing under the light of the sunset,  
>dancing to the tune of our melancholic reminiscences…<em>

* * *

><p><em><strong>(AN) ***__If I remember correctly, I read in the pre-Cygnus quests (the books) that Cygnus referred to the Black Mage as 'Noirahtlen'. I'm not sure if this is actually the name that Nexon has confirmed to be the Black Mage, or if it was just a one-off thing that they made up for the sake of it, but, until they confirm his real name, I'll accept this one as canon._

__…__

_Yes, the beginning jumped around a little bit, and was a little random but I think it turned out okay. _

__… _I hope._

_Constructive criticism is appreciated!  
>(To be quite frank, it's very much needed…)<em>


End file.
